Two Minutes of Torah: Shelach Lecha (Numbers 13:25-14:10) - Fear of the Unknown

I find making decisions quite difficult; so much so that I have a reputation as a bit of a procrastinator (possibly even indecisive) amongst my friends. The place where this is most clearly exhibited is when I have to book a plane ticket. I will do almost anything possible to avoid finally clicking the button which confirms my booking. I make excuses about the price, the time, anything and everything just to delay the inevitable. And frequently it ends up costing me money, as prices rise while I dither and delay.

This irrational behaviour does not come from a fear of flying, or any specific concern relating to booking a holiday. My paralysing fear is of the unknown. How can I book a flight for several months from now, and know that nothing is going to come up which is going to make this booking a mistake. Maybe I should be flying earlier, perhaps the next day would be better, and how can I know any of this so far in advance of the event?

Fear can be a paralysing emotion. Concern about the unknown and the unpredictable consequences can stop people making any progress or moving forward. It is for this reason that Franklin D Roosevelt famously said: ‘we have nothing to fear but fear itself’. He may well have been right, but it can be difficult to put his advice into action.

This week the spies bring back their report about the Land of Israel; and the people are offered two conflicting accounts. Calev assures them: ‘Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it’ (Numbers 13:30). In contrast the other spies (except for Joshua) warn: ‘We cannot attack that people, for it is stronger than we … The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers’ (Numbers 13:31-32). The people follow the majority report and yearn to return to Egypt, rather than venturing forward to the Land of Israel.

The Israelites are often condemned for their lack of faith. After experiencing the Exodus from Egypt, and having witnessed the giving of Torah at Sinai; surely they should have recognised that nothing was too difficult for God. They should have trusted God and Calev’s report.

But why is it so surprising that they are frightened? Why should we be shocked at the fact that the Israelites are anxious about conquering the Land of Israel? They were scared by the report they received, they were frightened by the prospect of war and they feared what lay ahead. They knew the land of Egypt, they had grown used to life in the wilderness and they were simply afraid of the unknown. When the people say: ‘If only we had died in the land of Egypt’ (Numbers 14:2), this is not a literal request. Instead they are asking for the certainty and security of a life without changes, without a journey into an unknown land.

I would love to think that I would have been a dissenting Israelite, cheering for Calev and Joshua (the other spy to offer a positive report), looking forward to the fulfilment of God’s promise. But I am honest if enough to admit that as someone who is paralysed with fear about booking an airline ticket, I would probably have been happier with the certainty of the wilderness than the mysterious Land of Israel. This would not have been due to a lack of faith; instead it would have been because of fear.

At the Pesach Seder one of the central messages is that WE were slaves in Egypt, and WE were freed by God. We share in the Exodus experience of our ancestors, and perhaps we should also say that WE were among the generation who were too scared to advance upon the Land of Israel. In stating this out loud we acknowledge the fact that we too were once paralysed by fear, and may be again. But we have the benefit of hindsight, and the ability to know that it was truly a land flowing with milk and honey, a land which we were able to conquer and settle.

From this experience we can acknowledge that Roosevelt was correct and that there really is nothing to fear but fear itself. We can learn the lesson of our wilderness experience and try to subdue our fears of the unknown in the future so that we can all reach our own promised land.

Two Minutes of Torah: Behaalotecha (Numbers 9:15-10:13) - It’s like riding a bike

One of the most exciting gifts I received for my Bar Mitzvah was a brand new mountain bike. As a child I loved cycling round the block, and when I was at university for three years I cycled everywhere with my trusty mountain bike. It feels like I have always been riding bikes, so much so that I can’t actually remember my dad teaching me how to ride a bike. But I imagine, as difficult as it was for me to learn, it was harder for him.

I am sure that he ran alongside me, holding me up as I pedalled; while he supported me, balanced me and made sure I did not fall. And eventually he must have released his grip, and trusted me to cycle on my own. He had to let me go to allow me to really pedal and balance unsupported. And he had to accept the risk that I might fall. Teaching a child to ride a bike requires a moment where the parent steps back and allows the child to cycle independently. It must be a tremendously difficult moment as the parent has to let go.

I often imagine that our relationship with God can be likened to a parental relationship. Today, we are riding our bicycles as God stands off to the side. This is not to say that God is absent, or does not care. Rather God watches, smiling as we cycle forward and weeping when we fall.

The way that our relationship with God has developed can be seen when we read the stories in our Torah. In this week’s Torah portion the Israelites journey from Sinai begins, and God is clearly at the front, supporting and leading the people. ‘At a command of Adonai the Israelites broke camp, and at a command of Adonai they made camp: they remained encamped as long as the cloud stayed over the Tabernacle… On a sign from Adonai they made camp and on a sign from Adonai they broke camp’ (Numbers 9:18&23). God appears unwilling, or unable, to allow the people to move forward on their own. Like the parent holding the bicycle while the child pedals. God led us through the wilderness and we followed.

There is certainly something appealing about this Divine relationship. It would be nice to have God guiding and directing us. We would not need to make any real decisions; instead we could rely on a sign from God to tell us exactly what we should do. And if we transgressed one of God’s commandments we could have expected an instantaneous punishment (we just need to read the story of Korach in two weeks time, when he is swallowed up by the earth – Numbers 16:1-35).

But that situation would be akin to riding a bike, if not with a parent’s support, then at least with two stabiliser wheels connected to the back. There comes a time when the parent has to let go, and the child has to pedal forward independently. We live at a time when God has let go, and we have to live independently. The spoon fed generation of the wilderness behaved in a way which reflected their situation. They were constantly complaining when they went without food or water for a day or two at a time, expecting everything to be provided for them. They were overly reliant on God; we have attained some form of independence.

The relationship with God is never broken, but we are allowed to live our lives with freedom of choice and an ability to discern for ourselves what is right and what is wrong. We may make mistakes, and we may lack the certainty of a direct connection to God. But we are being treated like adults (the very thing children so often appear to desire), and we are being entrusted with tremendous gifts: the gifts of independence, freedom and choice. God trusts us to exercise them appropriately and God hopes that we will continue to move forward, making progress, because after all it’s just like riding a bike.

Two Minutes of Torah: Parashat Naso (Numbers 5:1-16) - Caring for the sick

In the summer of my second year at rabbinic school I spent a week volunteering at the North London Hospice as part of my pastoral training. The hospice, unexpectedly, was a truly inspiring place. I watched as volunteers, nurses and doctors brought honour and dignity to the final weeks of peoples’ lives. The hospice was a place of care and compassion, a haven for people who were ill and suffering. There was no trepidation about coming into contact with people who were sick, no shadow hang over the place, and everyone was treated as independent adults.

One of the most striking experiences came on the final day when I joined a social worker on her visits to people who were not full time patients in the hospice. At the first old age home we visited, a carer met with us and said to us in a whisper: “she has cancer”. This woman could not bring herself to say the ‘c-word’ out loud, as though the word itself were a threatening disease. It was in stark contrast to the hospice itself, where all diseases, illnesses and ailments were spoken of in normal tones. The patient and the disease were not feared, they were treated.

A disease may not be contagious, but people may still be fearful of the patient, not just the word. In this week’s Torah portion the people are commanded: ‘take out off the camp every leper, and every one who has a bodily discharge, and whoever is defiled by the dead … that they defile not their camps’ (Numbers 5:2-3). In this context the leper, suffering from a disease is expelled from the camp – not necessarily the best way to encourage a full recovery.

Leprosy, bodily discharge and contact with the dead may appear as three unrelated occurrences. When viewing this Biblical commandment, we have to recognise that these three situations are related to impurity. All of these conditions would cause a person to be ritually impure and therefore spread this impurity. It is not a reference to leprosy as a disease; it is considering leprosy solely as an impurity.

When considering leprosy as a disease we have other obligations for the way in which we treat the sick. The Siddur, combining Mishnah Peah 1:1 and Shabbat 127a, states: ‘These are the things whose interest we enjoy in this world, while the capital remains for us in the world to come … visiting the sick’. This command is so important that we are rewarded for it twice – once in this world and once in the world to come.

Our Torah portion tells us to expel the leper from the camp, while we are rewarded for visiting the sick. Although they seem to contradict each other, they can function together. The law concerning leprosy refers to a disease which was considered to be a ritual impurity and transmissible. We need to be cautious about contagious diseases, but we must still visit the sick. Our visits, treating the patient with honour and dignity, can help to bring healing and comfort. We cannot and must not simply send them out off the camp to be forgotten and ignored.

The hospice taught me an important lesson about not allowing my fears of an illness or disease to effect the way that I treat the patient.

The law concerning leprosy was about ritual purity, which related to service in the Temple. We must consider that being fit to serve in the Temple was not just about external purity, but also about internal purity – the way we behave. Visiting the sick is a way of elevating our internal purity, and acting in a holy way, fitting of service for the Temple.

Two Minutes of Torah: Bamidbar (Numbers 1:1-19) - Everybody Counts

When we lived in Los Angeles, one of our favourite restaurants was called C&O. It was a very popular restaurant and it was always necessary to book in advance. The problem was that even with a booking, a party would not be seated until every single member of the group was present. We would worry about one particular friend who was invariably late and so risked our entire booking; even if every other person had arrived on time. I am sure there was some sensible business reason for this policy, but for me the message was, and is, that everybody counts.

The fourth book of the Torah begins with a similar message. God instructs Moses: ‘take a census of all the congregation of the people of Israel, by families, by the house of their fathers, according to the number of names, every male by their polls; From twenty years old and upwards’ (Numbers 1:2-3). We may struggle with the sexist nature of this census, excluding the women, or the purpose of it, which seems related to an ability to wage war (Numbers 1:3). However, as always we have to recognise the context (including its problems) and seek the lesson within it.

This is essentially the first instruction following the dedication of the Tabernacle. It was dedicated on the first day of the first month in the second year after the Exodus from Egypt (Exodus 40:17), and this command was given on the first day of the second month of the second year (Numbers 1:1). With the Tabernacle erected, and God dwelling in the midst of the Israelite community, the next task was to count the people.

In our modern Judaism the importance of each individual persists with the laws of minyan. Ten adult Jews are required in order that all of the prayers can be recited. With only nine people at a service there should technically be no Barechu, no Kedushah in the Amidah, and no Kaddish. Ten people are needed, and if a single one is missing the community is incomplete and unable to fulfil its complete religious function.

We may think that it is all a “game” of numbers, people are essentially tally marks to reach a minyan or count an army. But the Hebrew goes further; it specifically says bemispar shemot – with the number of names (Numbers 1:2). The census is not just about counting the adult males; it is also about recording their names. People are more than just numbers, there are names – each individual is significant and unique. When Abraham was originally blessed by God, the promise that he received was: ‘I will make your name great’ (Genesis 12:2). Having a name is an important piece of what makes us unique individuals.

The census is made up of names and numbers – and both elements are crucial in community. When I led an RSY-Netzer Israel Tour we would have the participants ‘number off’ each time we boarded the bus. Each person had their own number and they would call them out, in order, so that we knew everyone was present. If one number was missing, the count was broken and we recognised our community was incomplete and we could not proceed (thankfully we never lost anyone). To count, all numbers are needed – each one is important and necessary.

But at the same time people are not just numbers; a community is made up of unique individuals. Each person has a name and is more than just a number. We did not refer to our Israel Tour participants by their numbers; we knew them by their names, by their stories, interests and passions. It is the balance between the two, numbers and names, which creates community.

We must always remember that if one person is missing, or if one person is anonymous, our community is incomplete.

Two Minutes of Torah: Behar-Bechukotai (Leviticus 25:47-26:13) - The power of nature

In the space of my lifetime I find it amazing to think how far technology has advanced. As a child I remember once a week we used to gather around the phone for a crackly conversation with my grandparents in Israel. It was expensive and the quality was poor. Today, I switch on my computer and I can have a conversation with my grandparents, which includes live video and costs me nothing. I remember a world before the internet and one without mobile phones, let alone blackberries and Iphones. Advances in technology have made things which we only dreamed about possible. Is there anything we humans cannot do?

And then, a virtually anonymous volcano in Iceland begins erupting and we humans are reminded just how powerless we are in the face of the awesome force of nature. European flights were brought to a standstill and there was nothing we could do about the volcanic ash filling the atmosphere. All of our technological know how and scientific innovations were no match for the power of the natural world. For several days the skies were empty as nature reasserted herself.

In our modern, technologically advanced world we can often forget our relationship with, and reliance upon, nature. Our Biblical ancestors were well aware of the power nature held over them. In this week’s Torah portion, God spells out what will happen to the Israelites if they follow the laws and observe the commandments (Leviticus 26:3). The reward begins with nature: ‘I will give you rain in its season, and the land will increase its yield and the trees of the field will give their fruit’ (Leviticus 26:4). This was the ultimate prize which God could provide; the people were rewarded with nature’s bounty.

Today, in our concrete cities, we often forget about our relationship with nature. We do not feel the direct connection to the earth and the natural world in the way that our ancestors did. Our ancestors prayed to God and hoped that they would receive nature’s gifts. We still do this in the second paragraph of the Amidah. In autumn and winter we pray: ‘making the wind blow and the rain fall’, asking for the natural world to provide for the earth’s needs; but do we really think about what this request really means?

The volcano in Iceland was a stark reminder to our urban society that all of our progress can be brought to a stand still by the power of nature.

This week’s Torah portion sets up a very clear relationship of cause and effect. If the Israelites observed God’s rules, they would be rewarded with nature’s bounty. We may reject this conception of reward and punishment, but we can all recognise that there is a relationship between our actions and the natural world.

From the very beginning of creation we have had a responsibility for the natural world. Adam and Eve were commanded to till the earth and tend to it (Genesis 1:28), while Noah ensured the survival of all life on this planet (Genesis 6:8-9:22). There has always been a triangular relationship between God, the natural world and the people. God created the world and we were given a role within it. By protecting nature and our planet we serve God. If we can fulfil this task then surely we will be rewarded with a natural world which will provide for us.

Reading our sacred texts and remembering the way in which our ancestors related to nature can serve an important role in influencing the ways we live our lives today. The Icelandic volcano reminded us of nature’s power. I would not suggest that this was a Divinely ordained punishment, rather it seems that our planet was offering us a warning and reminder. By obeying God’s commandments perhaps we can receive a natural reward.